Three for the Money
by Rundas Prime1
Summary: Following a brutal defeat at the hands of Reaper, Lena is left home to heal. When Jesse McCree shows up in London, hot on the trail of Widowmaker, Lena makes it her business to bring the assassin in before she kills again. (Overwatch: Ultimate. Part One)


Three for the Money

Lena Oxton was alone in her dark room, the blue light of her laptop's display being the only illumination. Jack Morrison, aka Soldier 76, Ana Amari, Dr. Mei Ling Zhou, and Winston were sitting around a table with the camera in front of them, backlit by the Watchpoint's off-white alloy walls. None were wearing their uniforms. The idea of having a round table conference was Winston's, who'd insisted that every member be involved, even if they couldn't be present.

"Right now," said Jack, he appeared much better, much more stable, since the last time Lena saw him. "Our primary objective should be to gather the team. We can't fight Talon without a considerable force, not successfully."

"The recall signal I sent out should take care of that, right?" said Winston. A white sweater stretched over the simian genius' massive torso.

"Not completely. Some of us will need… Convincing."

"I'm guessing you had someone in mind?" Inquired Ana.

"Athena?" Jack beckoned, and the Watchpoint AI program brought up an image of a blonde-haired woman in white on the table and Lena's screen.

Jack explained, standing and leaning on the table. "Dr. Angela Ziegler, aka Mercy. I think you all remember her."

"She's… Well, she's… The greatest medical doctor who ever lived," Winston gushed, pushing up his glasses. He'd worked with her before back in the old days. Not directly in the same department, but nearly everyone had come to Ziegler at some point for something. Lena had met her as well. After Winston brought Lena back to the world of the chronologically abled, it was Ziegler who had nursed her back to health. Ziegler had even accompanied her on her very first mission. She continued to listen, nodding and rocking back forth, her bedframe creaking.

Jack went on. "So far, she hasn't answered the recall. But I think we'll need her if we're going to stay operational. She's currently in the Middle East, attending victims of the civil conflict. If her eyes are opened to the threat Talon poses, she'll come around."

"She will," assured Lena, nodding. "She's got to."

Jack swallowed. Like always, it seemed, he knew something she didn't.

Nobody knew what to do. Jack had been directing the meeting, but now he'd stopped. "What do you think, Winston?" He said.

Winston snapped back into the present. His twitching fingers nearly knocked his glasses off. "What? Me?"

Jack looked over to Winston. There was a weariness in his eyes. Lena couldn't forget the state he was in not but weeks ago. Dejected, nearly incapacitated in fear and guilt. Before, he was out of control, a man on a desperate, relentless mission. One that nearly killed them all. One he still blamed himself for. He seemed to have struck a happy medium now, but perhaps that mission was why Jack was stopping himself, sometimes mid-sentence, and deferring final authority to Winston. "You're in charge now. It's your call where we're headed."

"That…" Winston paused, unsure. Overwatch had grown bigger than he'd expected faster than he'd known it would. And he'd expected Jack to take the mantle of leadership now that he'd returned. Seeing Winston order Jack around was odd in a way Lena couldn't describe. She could only imagine how Winston felt. "Well, that sounds like a good idea to me. Morrison, Zhou, Amari and I will head there and see if we can't get her to help."

"And me, right?" Lena interjected, she stopped rocking. "You just forgot to say my name."

"Lena…" Something lighted on Winston's face. Regret. "I don't know how to put this… Both of your arms are in casts."

Lena looked down. Her right arm was immobilized on her chest, her left hand was in a smaller, though similarly restrictive sleeve. Her memento from the battle against Reaper. "So they are, but I could still be like, your pilot."

"With your arms in casts?"

She shrugged painfully, speaking through her teeth, "Moral support?"

"Lena," Winston began sternly, "you have to-"

"Ja-ack!"

"Winston's right. You're going to stay home until you're healed up," said Jack, "That's the end of it."

"That's no fair."

Jack scolded sharply, "It's so you don't get killed in the middle of an active warzone without hands."

"I'm sorry," Winston said, he looked rattled. "If there's nothing else? We depart tomorrow. Meeting adjourned." Winston ended the video call.

Lena closed her laptop angrily. Then fumbled to open it back up. " _Stupid,_ " she grumbled. She hadn't realized what she'd done, but now it was clear as day. By appealing to Jack, she'd undermined Winston's authority. In addition, she'd forced Jack uncomfortably close to a place he no longer wanted to be. Eventually, she found her repeated utterances of the word, "stupid," to be increasingly self-directed.

Emmie must have heard the muttering even from outside. She peeked her red-topped head through the crack of the door.

"Um… Lena?" she said, her voice was tinged with a faded Scottish brogue, and her hazel eyes seemed perfectly visible even in the dark, "You alright?"

As Lena struggled to get her fingers between the two halves of the computer, she barely acknowledged her other, "Fine. Fine. Just… Can't… Get…"

Emmie laughed and sat down on the bed. She peeled the computer back open, then planted a soft kiss on Lena's cheek. "Better now?"

Now that the thing was open, Lena was at a loss for why. "Not really…" she said, slumping slowly backward onto the headboard.

"Come on. Who made baby angry?" She took Lena's hand into her cool vanilla-scented ones. "Who gets the axe?"

"It's… It's Winston." Lena said. Her chin was jammed into her neck by the awkward angle she was sitting in. The immobility of her jaw made her tone seem unexpectedly childish. She sat up. "He's going to this thing that we were going to do together, but he's going without me."

Emmie raised her thin brows and cocked her head to the side. "Winston's big, but he'd probably let me get a lick in if I asked nicely. Is this because of your… Ouchies?"

"He's right though," Lena said, falling forward onto her face, "I can barely make it out of bed, let alone the Middle East."

"The… Active warzone?"

"The Middle East- I meant Middle East _Cardiff,"_ Lena dodged. "That's- That's what I meant, yeah."

Emmie didn't know. She'd spent Christmas eve at Gibraltar with Winston, but Overwatch didn't come up. Partly because Lena had specifically asked him not to bring it up. Emmie had enough on her plate. Being accessory to violations of UN edicts wasn't something she needed to add to that.

"Well, it's only Cardiff," she smiled and said, she squinted suspiciously at first, but that soon faded, "maybe you'll get another chance."

Lena turned her head to the side, away from Emmie. Her cheek brushed against her teeth as she spoke. "I suppose. I just don't like all this sitting around."

"There's not a lot you can do, really. Don't worry, you'll be back at it soon enough." Emmie grabbed Lena's shoulders and propped her back up. "Hey, dinner's ready, made your favorite. Come on."

Emmie stood, grabbed Lena's good arm, and helped her up. They headed down the hall to the golden light of the dining room.

The room itself had smooth hardwood flooring, (as did every room, since Lena hated carpets,) and mint-green walls. A glass floral chandelier hung above the table, casting shadowy flowers and thorns around the space. The table was finished with cherry wood and large enough to seat eight, though rarely more than two used it at a time. The room was large and cozy. Lena could afford the house because of the fortunes she'd made as an Overwatch pilot before the dissolution. Emmie's own licensed veterinary practice covered the bulk of their cost of living.

Like Emmie had said, she'd made spaghetti. Lena wouldn't call it her _favorite_. Only if you didn't count ice cream. As a cook, Emmie wasn't good, but wasn't bad, either. Of course, that might just be because everyone's cooking seemed average after they tried chef Torbjörn's meatball recipe.

Good old Torby. Now those were the days.

Lena cleaned her plate, and Emmie took the flatware to the sink, putting it with the stack that she'd been putting off for the whole week.

"I'm gonna take out the rubbish," said Em, pecking Lena's cheek. "You just relax, alright?"

Emmie brushed a mass of hair out of her face, grabbed the bag out of the rubbish can and left the apartment. Lena blew air out of her pursed lips in boredom. She twitched her thumb to an invisible rhythm, something she did when was bored or unsure. She looked at the sink, full of dirty dishes. It wasn't right that Emmie was doing all the work. Lena stood and walked over. She took a sponge from the drawer and started the job. It wasn't hard, even with one hand. She'd finished three plates before Emmie came back.

"Jesus, it's hot out there."

"Hi, love!"

"Hey. You handling that okay?"

"Oh, yeah. It's the least I can- Shit!"

Lena vanished. Emmie silently stopped in her tracks, unsure of what just occurred. A tiny splash of red swirled in the sink.

"I'm okay!" Lena called from the other room. She came back in, holding up her hand. "Just a nip on my finger. It's okay."

"You tried washing dishes with one hand, and-"

"It could've happened to anybody."

Emmie closed her eyes. "Babe, how did this happen again?"

"I cut my finger. On a knife."

"I mean your arms."

Lena cleared her throat, she'd told this story before. She thought her hesitance made it more convincing. "Er… Accident on one my… endeavors. Test piloting, like I've been doing. Got in a bad scrape. I couldn't recall from all the damage, so here I am."

Emmie was quiet for a long moment, weighing what she was about to say, "Are you… I mean is everything alright? You just don't seem. It's just not like you. You never _just_ get hurt like that on a job. Is something the matter? Did something distract you?"

"I'm… Okay." Lena crossed the room, taking Emmie's hand into hers. "Are you?"

She sputtered into the phrase, then words started tumbling out of her mouth, "I just… I don't even want to think about it, but what if you get into something bad and you can't- What if they don't find you? What if your accelerator gets damaged and you turn into a ghost again?"

"I won't. Emmie, where's all this coming from?"

Emmie squeezed Lena's hand tighter, she said nothing further.

"It won't happen. Alright?" For a moment, the temptation to tell her everything danced across Lena's mind. The thought that she was doing more harm than good in all this started to creep in. Now wasn't the time, she decided. "You don't need to worry. Come on. We can… Webflix and chill. Doctor Why marathon?"

Emmie brushed her eye. "You hate that show."

"Yeah but _you_ don't."

Emmie nodded and smiled, then they two walked back.

"And we don't have to _just_ chill, either."

"Naughty girl."

The next morning, Lena and Emmie went out. It was Lena's idea. They both needed a break, and Lena hated being cooped up all the time. Emmie wasn't initially receptive, still worried about Lena's injuries, but after the first hour, she realized how much she'd needed this as well. A chance to just forget everything and be with the person she cared for most. After a light shopping trip and a time at the arcade, the companions came to an outdoor café with a distinct American theme. They'd never gone there, and it came highly recommended by Winston. Lena didn't want to make Emmie cook again, and Emmie didn't to leave Lena alone with dirty dishes again. They stopped in. A man with his hair laminated in gel wearing a white T-Shirt and a leather jacket handed them menus, then roller-skated away.

"I don't know what any of this is," said Emmie, looking at her menu.

"Just… Order something that sounds _really_ American. Make the most of the specialty."

"Everything sounds American. Did it ever occur to you that Winston only likes this place because it serves peanut butter sandwiches as an entree?"

Lena didn't have an answer.

"I'm going to… Use the little girls room. Just order two of whatever you're getting."

"Don't get lost," giggled Lena.

Emmie smiled, rolling her eyes, and left.

"Is that…?" Someone drawled from across the restaurant. He certainly sounded very American. "You are. You're Tracey." It was a smiling man of medium height and build, shaggy dark hair cut just below his strong jawline. A goatee hung from his chin, and a wide-brimmed hat rested on his head. Completing the cowboy ensemble, a flannel shirt under a long black duster. He had this look even years ago, and it wasn't one that was forgotten.

"Jesse? Jesse McCree?"

"At your service," McCree said, tipping his hat. He wore a single leather glove on his left hand, but the glint of metal under the cuff of his sleeve betrayed the cyber-limb's authenticity.

"It's... Well, I'm surprised. What brings you to London?"

"I heard you were gettin' the gang back together. Thought I'd take a look-see."

"The Recall. You're joining?"

"I didn't… I didn't say nothin' of the sort. I'm havin' a look. I want to know what ya'll are about first."

"What we're about?" Lena chuckled quizzically. "You know the score there. Justice, peace. Just like the old days."

"The old days. Right." McCree rubbed his eyebrows. "I was… _Really_ hopin' you wouldn't say that."

Emmie came back and spoke quietly, looking over her shoulder. "I swear, there was a line. Are you sure we should eat here? Oh. Who's this?"

"Emmie, this is Jesse. Jesse, this is Emmie, my girlfriend."

McCree smiled, offered his hand to shake and said, "Pleasure to meet you, Ma'am. Much obliged." He tipped his hat with his free hand.

Emmie took his hand, stifling a smirk. "Is there a… Cosplay convention in town?"

"Beggin' your pardon?"

"You know, the… Get up." Emmie chuckled, and talked gruffly out of the corner of her mouth, "This town ain't big enough fer the two of us. Put the wagons in a circle." She awkwardly dropped the voice, "That whole… Thing."

McCree's smile was blankly stiff. "Cos…Play, ma'am?"

"Oh dear" Emmie stammered, "I'm… Sorry, um…"

"Ah, don't fret," McCree waved dismissively, "I'm sure I stick out like a sore thumb here."

Emmie shrugged, her neck disappearing into her shoulders, "You… Please don't take this the wrong way, but you have no idea."

McCree chuckled earnestly, confirming there was no ill will.

Lena asked, "Jesse, you weren't here with anyone, were you?"

"No, I don't reckon so."

"Emmie, is it alright if Jesse joins us?"

"No objections here, maybe he can help me find something good on this menu."

"All looks good to me," said McCree, taking a seat. "Can't go wrong with the cheeseburger. All-American staple. Though they make better ones state-side if you ask me. But I don't eat much exceptin' eggs and grits."

Emmie couldn't hold back her laughter any longer, "Where'd you find this guy, Lena?"

"We served together," Lena answered, nodding.

"Well, not really together. At the same time. Different units, divisions. Lena was Jack's brat, I was under Reyes."

"You're Overwatch then."

" _Was._ " McCree's expression darkened momentarily as he took a drink of water. "We had… a disagreement, me and the management. Went my own way for a while. Did my own thing. But I'm of the notion those days could be coming to a close."

Emmie whispered, leaning in extremely close, "Overwatch is coming back? A- are you sure you should be talking about that? Here? With me?"

"Um… Jesse," muttered Lena, nudging McCree with her elbow. She should have thought a bit more about this.

"We're all friends here, ain't we? Friends to the cause, anyway?"

"McCree," Emmie said, her intrigue reaching a fever pitch, "what are you trying to say?"

"Jess-ee." Lena said through pursed lips. "Ixnay on the ecretsay."

" _What?_ " McCree mouthed. He cleared his throat. The spark of realization only filled his eyes after. "She's right. Um… Jack wouldn't want me… Spreadin' that around."

Emmie gasped and whispered loudly, "Oh my _God_ , Jack Morrison's _alive?_ "

McCree coughed. "Actually, Em, I… it occurs to me that there _is_ somethin' I forgot."

"I understand," said Emmie dutifully. "I do. Overwatch business?"

"Yeah, speakin' of that. Mind if I borrow Tracey for a sec?"

Emmie squinted. "Um… Sure."

"She doesn't know?" McCree scolded. They were across the street, Emmie's back was turned to them, only occasionally looking back. And Lena was checking.

"She _knows_." Lena's eyes shifted awkwardly downward, towards the pavement, "That I do some test piloting for extra cash."

"Alongside highly illegal vigilante activity? Ain't that somethin' you reckon she ought to know?"

"Not… Really. I don't…" Unsure of even her own logic, she merely deflected. "She doesn't need to worry about that. I'm not getting hurt."

McCree glared, glancing at Lena's casts.

"Often."

Flabbergasted, McCree rubbed his eyebrows, then dropped his arm back down. "How the hell does she _not_ know? Does she not watch the news?"

"We haven't been _on_ the news," Lena said, matter-of-factly, "besides, it's so depressing anyway."

"And didn't you mention that you and her spent Christmas at Gibraltar?"

"Winston likes the atmosphere. It's like living out in the countryside."

"She's going to find out. Heaven forbid it be after you get killed."

"That's not going to happen. I'm careful."

"Not careful enough. You're lyin' to her. Straight up. Lies only ever get bigger. Bigger till they can't be ignored. You can't just blink out of all your actions' consequences, Tracey."

"Well, it's not really an _action_ is it? if I'm _not_ telling her?"

McCree scowled. "I ain't going to tell her nothin' that it ain't my place to tell. But you think about this. And you solve it."

Emmie approached. "Sorry, I just… I don't think this place is for us today. Does um… Does Jesse want to have lunch at the house?"

McCree cleared his throat. "I… wouldn't want to intrude."

"It's not an intrusion, I swear," clarified Emmie, "I think entertaining would be great fun."

"I can't-"

"Then I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist."

"Oh no," McCree said, "Tracey, your lady just insisted."

"Well, refuse!" Lena said, a little too loudly.

McCree shrugged. "I can't rightly turn down a lady, can I?"

Lena said nothing further, only followed Emmie and McCree back home in a huff, wondering if the cowboy was scheming.

Lena was at the dining room table, flipping her pizza over on her plate. They'd ordered out again. And at some point, Lena couldn't remember when, Emmie also offered McCree the guest bedroom for the night. No point staying in a cheap hotel when there were friends to stay with, she'd said. McCree played it like the hospitality was unnecessary, but his eyes were thanking the good Lord. As recompense, McCree had insisted on doing the meager clean-up for the meal, as repayment for Emmie's hospitality. McCree placed the last dish in the drying rack, then wiped off his hands.

"I'm gonna head out for a smoke," said McCree, nodding shortly. "Ma'ams." He exited, popping a cheap cigar between his lips, staring at Lena the whole way.

Emmie leaned on the table, "You haven't said a word to Jesse since you got back. You sure you're still friends?"

"Yeah. We just…" Lena flipped the cheese side down. "We had an argument."

"Was it about you and Overwatch?"

Lena's heart stopped. Her arm lurched, but she resisted the instinct to slap her own chest, to escape. "I- Um… Whatever do you mean?"

Emmie straightened out and put a hand through her thick red mane. "You're joining them, aren't you?"

"Am I joining?" Lena stammered, she wasn't relieved in the slightest, only confused. "Emmie… What about you? I couldn't… Abandon you." Lena wondered if the excuse sounded as much like a weak lie as she thought.

"It would kill you to turn down that offer." Emmie stated, she was pacing, still looking at the walls. She avoided eye-contact when she was laying out her point, always did. "Overwatch was your life. _Helping people_ was your life." She gestured with her hand, then sat down at the table, eyes fixed now on the plate below Lena's chest. "You can't… You can't be happy sitting here with me, just flying planes whenever some bigwig comes along with an offer."

"Just last night, you were talking about you wanted my life to be _less_ dangerous."

"This is different. You'd be fighting for something right. It'd be… It'd be selfish of me to tell you not to."

"But it's _illegal._ " Lena said, momentarily averting her gaze to the left. Another flimsy excuse she didn't believe herself. "The Petras Act and everything. It'd make you accessory. I couldn't do that to you."

"The Petras Act?" Emmie said. She finally considered Lena's eyes for a moment, then she stood back up. Not a threatening gesture, Emmie had just remembered how important her pacing was to keeping calm. "What is the Petras Act? What does that even mean? ' _All Overwatch activity illegal._ ' If you eat a sandwich in the name of Overwatch is pastrami a crime? Let's be honest. If everything legal was right, places like LumeriCo, Li-Jiang, wouldn't have a business. And _that's_ the reason, okay? The world needs to follow something good again. Not corporate interests. Real heroes. Like _you._ And _Jesse._ I'm scared to hell about this, Lena, but if you feel like you have to go, I can't stop you."

"Oi, geez, Em. I'm… Actually…" Lena blinked her eyes hard enough to wrinkle and bit her tongue. "Still thinking about it, actually. I gotta… It's a big choice, you know?"

Emmie nodded, and regarded Lena's eyes again. She brushed her hair away from her freckled face. "I understand, just… Make the right one, whatever it is, okay?"

Lena remembered the day the Slipstream crashed like it was yesterday. It had made her what she was today. More so, the dreams she had while fading in and out of existence for that next eternity-long month defined her sleeping fears for years to come. Lena still had strange dreams. Or at least, ones that felt the same. She'd been having an odd one. She was herself, but she was someone else every time she looked down. She dreamed of battling a demon and a puppet with the headless horseman and a vampire at her side. Chalk it up to too much Doctor Why before bed. Lena sat awake for about an hour staring at the ceiling, not eager to see what other mad ravings her mind had in store tonight. She unfortunately started thinking about what Emmie said.

Lena never expected her to be so… Supportive. Emmie was the maternal one, the thoughtful one. Lena supposed she'd just assumed that Emmie's reaction to adventuring and vigilantism would be a resounding no. But it wasn't. Emmie understood. Now that Lena thought about it more, that made sense too. Lena realized now, however, that Em wouldn't be mad that she'd violated the Petras act. She'd be mad that Lena went behind her back. That seemed to make the situation even more trying than before. Lena tucked a lock of her sleeping lover's hair behind a round, flat ear. The longer she thought about this whole thing, the worse it seemed to get.

She heard McCree's spurs as he snuck through the hall. Under normal circumstances, Lena might have found this unsettling. But right now, a good mystery was just what she needed. She struggled to quietly and smoothly inch out of the covers and off the bed. She froze in place when Emmie rolled over, smacking her lips. Loose strands fell into her mouth. Lena stood and snuck to the other side of the bed, gently caressing the wayward hairs out before leaving. She followed McCree down to the garage.

McCree was dressed in a black collared shirt, three top buttons popped, sleeves rolled up. His brown hat was swapped out for black one. A leather chest holster was strapped on as well. Nothing about the outfit screamed 'John Wayne,' but McCree's own old-western flavor was all-consuming.

"Jesse?" Lena said. The cattleman nearly shrieked in surprise. "Something you're not telling me?"

McCree tilted his head down, hat covering his eyes. "Uh… Tracey, I…" He looked back up. "I'm afraid I've not been entirely honest either. There _is_ a reason I stopped in London particularly. My line of work is not… entirely altruistic. I do some work for money too, merc work. Clean-ish. Live bounties when I got the choice. People who deserve it. And my quarry's in town." He deposited the Peacekeeper revolver in the holster under his armpit. "I wanted to tell you because I know you have a score to settle with her too. But seein' you in the condition you are…"

Her. There was only one that came to Lena's mind. The assassin who'd killed Mondatta Tekhartha on that fateful night one year ago. "Widowmaker."

"Yeah," McCree admitted. "It's Widowmaker."

"I've got to help you bring her in."

"Tracey, you ain't in no state to-"

Lena advanced. "Winston and Jack are gone. I'm ranking officer of Overwatch right now and I say I'm helping you _Agent McCree._ "

"Whoa there, did you hear what I said?" McCree rubbed the back of his neck, "I don't… know if I'm joinin' yet."

"Consider yourself instated." She clapped twice. "You work for me now, hop to it, love."

Exhaling with exasperation, McCree asked, "If I tell you to stay home for your own safety, I reckon you're just gonna pull that silly TV thing where you follow me around and inadvertently ruin all my plans from the shadows?"

"Yep."

McCree growled. "Fine. Grab your gear. That is, assumin' you can get into it without help."

"I'll just ask-" Lena stopped. "I'll just go put on my trousers, thank you."

McCree slipped on a black dinner jacket, then grabbed a stiff duffle bag and threw it onto the back of Emmie's motorcycle.

"It alright with you if we take this?" McCree asked, gesturing.

"Sure you don't want to take the car? It's 'cause the motorcycle's more like a horse, innit?"

McCree scoffed, but his expression softened, and his face turned slightly red when he realized that she was right. Lena charged right in. Best not to give the situation time to get worse, after all.

Lena had put on black jeans and her bomber jacket over a white blouse, which hid the blue glow of her chest-mounted chronal accelerator as long as one didn't look too closely. McCree didn't wear any helmet, because it didn't fit. He was adamant that Lena wear it though. She rather wished McCree would stop treating her like something delicate. McCree stopped the motorcycle in front of a stylishly marked locale. Reds and golds in the venue's design gave it a regal appearance.

"This where she is?" asked Lena, removing her helmet and shaking her hair out.

They stepped inside, treated to the sound of smooth jazz, and quiet chattering of friends. A lone woman in black was seated at the bar, appearing heavily distracted by her own thoughts.

"Garcon, get the girl a coke," said McCree. Lena was in the process of interrupting, something to the effect that she was in fact of drinking age. American drinking age, even. But McCree continued without skipping a beat, though in a more hushed tone. "Tracey, I'm gonna sample the local color."

"You mean ditch me?"

"I'm rustlin' up rumors, alright? Finding out where the target could be, why she's in London. This is seven eighths of merc work. Sit tight. I'll be back soon."

McCree left Lena alone at the table and approached the woman in black. She had sharp, uniquely familiar features, like a movie star. An informant? McCree put on his best smile and said, "Hey there, darlin'. Barkeep, I'll have what she's havin'."

Potential girlfriend. How American. "Garcon!" she shouted, "can I get some rum to go with this?"

McCree grimaced awkwardly at the outburst before turning his gaze back to the woman. Her surgically recolored eyes were already casting a grim, disappointed stare. "Oh, please," her voice was nearly a snarl, "How did _you_ ever get in here?"

The American was not deterred, "I used somethin' called a door. My notion is that's how one gets in bars."

"This is not one of your _bars,_ " she sneered, "this is an exclusive club. How did you find it?"

"I don't rightly recall. I just got this tendency to find places with beautiful women in them."

She smirked, looking down at her drink, a tall glass of red wine. "That's quite a gift," she said, "Does it get you into a lot of trouble?"

"Oh, tons. But it's the good kind."

"Garcon!" Lena shouted, waving an empty glass in the air. She had to admit the mischievous part of her was enjoying this disruption.

McCree stammered, mortified, "She's… Don't… Just ignore her."

"Gladly," Said the woman, pointedly. "You want to go somewhere else? Somewhere _private?_ "

McCree appeared surprised at the advance, but receptive. He tipped his hat boyishly. "Now, I would like that very much."

They stood. McCree followed the woman towards the toilets like a drooling dog. Lena got the distinct impression that she'd been lied to about McCree's intentions. She wagged her thumb, thumping against the table, waiting impatiently for her drink. Her thoughts turned to the woman, her accent. She wondered what her story was. Her features were perfect and refined, like a sculpture given life.

Sharp, unique, familiar. Surgically altered eyes.

Lena finally realized that she _had_ seen the woman's face. She was no movie star. She got up and ran to follow them.

McCree waited in the stall, back turned to the woman, "You know, I do finally remember where I found this place. On the _web._ "

"Oh," said the woman, "is that so?"

"Like a… _Spider web_. Like a… Black _Widow_ spider?"

"Hm."

This woman was much denser than McCree remembered. He turned around. She already had a gun trained on him. McCree's exasperated grimace became a slightly embarrassed one.

"Oh," he said. "Oh… So, um… how's the hubby, Amelie?"

Hatred flashed in her eyes for but a moment. "You do remember."

McCree sneakily slipped a small cylinder from his belt and pulled the pin with his thumb. Widow didn't see. He grinned and said, "Forgive your enemy, but never forget the bastard's face."

"Well, this is one less face _I'll_ have to remember."

Lena barged in, "Jesse!"

"Tracey, no! Close your-"

A blinding flash of white light filled the room. Two gunshots rang out. Lena blinked forward and rushed where she remembered Widowmaker to be, only to crash shoulder-first into the wall. Her good one, thankfully. 'Thankfully' though, didn't help that future bruise. McCree shoved Widow's head into the sink, the motion sensor activated, washing a smear of the flesh-toned foundation off her icy blue skin. She nimbly scorpion-kicked him in the rear, sending his face into the mirror, shattering the glass. She returned to a standing position. Lena took the pulse pistol from her handbag and shakily aimed it, only for Widowmaker to knock it away with a swift kick.

Lena swung her free hand into Widow's cheek and it connected with a resounding 'crack.' Her hand exploded into pain, the tiny bones that had only just begun to set shifted and shattered into prickly fragments. Lena reflexively screamed in pain, clutching her hand. Widow stumbled backward through the door. Lena recalled, her body returning to its previous location and physical state. She was now standing exactly where she was three seconds ago, halfway through the ladies' room portal, right above Widowmaker.

Widowmaker kicked Lena into the men's room, then rolled forward at the recovering McCree. Lena watched through the door flopping open and closed as McCree whipped his Peacekeeper from its holster in his jacket and fired. It missed, sending fragments of ceramic wall tile flying. Widow punched the underside of McCree's hand, sending the revolver's barrel into the ceiling. She jabbed her palm into McCree's diaphragm, and then his throat. She caught the revolver as it was coming down and pointed it to McCree's temple.

She raised it back up, "You made me late." She then grabbed McCree's belt, which held his remaining two flashbangs, and backpedaled to the door.

Getting back in the fight, Lena saw Widowmaker aiming McCree's weapon into the club. She kicked the back of her knee, knocking her off-balance. Her shot, intended for one of the club patrons, hit the crystal chandelier, making a shower of glass on the red carpet. Widow threw one of the flashbangs at Lena's feet, blinding her again.

She stood and took aim again, but the gun was knocked from her hand by a shining projectile. An unfamiliar voice shouted, " _Ryū ga waga teki wo kurau!_ " and two translucent blue dragons suddenly roared to life in the restaurant.

They flew around each other in a helix pattern, heading right for Widowmaker. Growling in frustration, and not desiring to know what those dragons did to a body, she sprinted to the bar and vaulted over, escaping through the kitchen. Lena, McCree, and the new guy, apparently also after Widow, ran after the dragon.

The dragons passed harmlessly through walls and cooks, though the chefs were certainly surprised at the mythical creatures in their workspace. McCree tripped over a pan, letting Lena take the lead, but even she wasn't agile enough to keep up with the third assassin. He leapt over tables and even burning stoves without breaking his rhythm. He soon overtook the dragons, disappearing into their increasingly luminous form. Outside, the dragons broke off into two separate paths and dissipated. By the time Lena got there, he was already scanning the environs. He didn't say a word or make a sound, but Lena somehow knew that he was furious. He turned his head, looking over his shoulder.

English was not his first language. His voice carried the tones of a native Japanese speaker. "And you would be?"

"I- um… I'm Tracer."

"That is… Your name?"

"Codename."

He raised his eyebrow slightly. "This name, Tracer. Does that mean you are a tracker of some kind?"

"No. Not especially."

He shrugged with his eyebrows, and headed back inside.

"Hey!" Lena exclaimed, following, "Aren't we going to follow her?"

The assassin didn't look at her. "You are welcome to try, if you wish."

"What are _you_ doing?" Lena hopped over a spilled pot of red sauce.

"Finding the target. Like I was intending to do. But Widowmaker beat me to that."

"Hey, hold her right there, slim." McCree had regained his bearings, and was now holding his cybernetic arm up in the Japanese man's path. "Who the hell are you?"

"My name," he said, hoisting his bow over his shoulder, "is Hanzo. I am here to kill Widowmaker."

"Nothin' personal, but I've got that in the bag, thank you kindly."

Hanzo looked around. "Odd. She is not dead yet."

"Who the hell do you think- I _would've_ sealed that contract if I didn't have this crippled tagalong."

"Oi, way to be a team player, cowboy. You're the one who bollocksed it up!"

"Oh, tell me, _Officer Oxton_ , how this is _my_ fault?"

"You ran in there without telling me what you were planning!"

"I had her right where I wanted her-"

"She almost killed you!"

"I've a notion-"

"Do you ever think or do you just become _'of notions?'_ "

"Do you ever shut up and listen or do you just ignore issues and hope they go away? _I_ don't understand how to be a team player? I was protectin' you, but you wanna just act like everythin's fine, like you shouldn't be in a damn hospital right now. I've a half a mind to-"

"Fat lot of good it does you to talk about trust when you lied to _me! Twice!_ "

"I-" Jesse's words caught in his throat. He gritted his teeth. "You're right… You're right. We've both got some changin' to do, I suppose. Look, here's the score: I'll share the plans, but you've got to follow 'em. We clear?"

"Crystal. Unless the plan sucks."

"Tracey-!"

"Widowmaker's getting away and we're losing Hanzo! Come on!" Lena raced back to the main room, jumping over food, cookware and people alike.

"Goddamnit." McCree kicked a pot across the floor, " _Hann-zo._ " He mocked, pronouncing 'a' rather than 'ah.' "First-name basis like ya'll are best friends just 'cause you hate me."

Hanzo addressed everyone in the room. It was at around thirty people, all dressed in formal attire. "Widowmaker was here for one of you," he said. "Who?"

A flabbergasted patron responded, "Are you some kind of maniac? You expect someone to know when there's a hit out on them?"

"Hey, hold it, Tats. You're bein' too direct," interjected McCree, scooping his Peacekeeper off the floor.

" _Tats?_ " asked Hanzo.

"Hey, you go shirtless, I thought they were somethin' you were proud of. Allow me. People. Howdy. Name's McCree. How many of you have done somethin' to… perhaps piss a fella off or otherwise cause said fella inconvenience in the past week? Don't be shy now."

Everyone raised their hand but one.

"You have a finesse I cannot match," mocked Hanzo.

"Let's lay this one out." Said McCree, scratching his beard. "When Widowmaker comes to town, she kills three people, right? One Talon target, one for the money, and a random victim to throw off investigators as to which was which."

"She… does?" asked Lena, who was starting to feel quite clueless.

"Now if this was the one for the money…" McCree took out his phone and scrolled through it. "We might just find 'em on good 'ol Cleanhit."

"You use Cleanhit?" Hanzo looked down his nose.

"Getting sidetracked much?" said Lena, "Why are we looking at dating apps?"

" _Bounty hunting apps_ , Tracey. For mercs to find targets."

Lena's eyes grew wide. "Whaat?"

"No winners on Cleanhit. I guess I can check… Madshade."

" _Some_ of us don't _have_ to look at two," condescended Hanzo.

McCree clicked his tongue and smiled in disbelief, glancing at Lena. "What a slippery critter we've happened upon, Tracey. Don't it bother you that you might be choosin' the same targets as Widowmaker?"

Hanzo shrugged with his mouth. "Don't bother checking your app. There are two here."

"Okay." A short pause. "You gonna _show_ us?"

"Those two," he pointed to a bald man with a dark beard, and a young, blonde male, both wearing black four-piece suits. Lena noted that one of them, the bald one, was the one who had not raised his hand.

"Ya'll can leave now. We just need these two."

They staggered out almost in unison. Being around someone with a bounty on their head was obviously not an appealing proposition. The two men remained, and a woman.

"Your names." Demanded Hanzo.

"No need for such terseness, I am Sahim Noor, this is my wife, Kashvi," said the man with the beard. "And I'm willing to cooperate."

"Um… Smith. Kaiden. Pleasure."

"And who would you two be specifically?" Hanzo interrogated.

"Oh!" said Lena, raising her hand. "I know! I know! Sahim Noor's the CEO of the Vishkar corporation!"

McCree raised his eyebrow, "That so? You didn't raise your hand, so you're claimin', Mr. Vishkar, that you ain't pissed off no Brazilians lately? No pissed-off Brazilian put a hit out on you?"

Noor smiled humorlessly. "I don't wear my dealings on my shirt sleeve, Mr. McCree. I would appreciate it if you wouldn't turn to accusations of my character."

McCree shook his head, "How 'bout you, Mr. Smith?"

"Actually, Smith would be the first name." Smith piped up. "I'm… An escort. So that's… Cool, right?"

"Now you two have really got me in a predicament. I don't trust Vishkar, but I sure as hell don't trust no gigolo with the first name Smith."

"Such objective judgement," Hanzo derided.

"Let's just figure this out. C'mon." said Lena. McCree and Hanzo refocused. "Widowmaker said, Jesse, that you made her late. She was waiting here for someone. So… has anyone just gotten here?"

"That would be me," said Noor. "Was rather looking forward to dinner, actually."

McCree snapped his fingers. "Good one, Tracey. Smith, you go home. Rethink your life while you're at it. And think about getting a name-change."

"I-I will. _Not_ get a name-change because that would be-"

"No one cares," said Hanzo.

"Don't we want to know why there's a hit out for Smith?" said Lena.

"It ain't consumin' my passions as of late. So, Noor, you're the lucky guy. I guess it don't matter why Widowmaker's after you. All that matters is she is."

"Well, then, thank you for saving my life. I suppose I'll be leaving town now."

Hanzo crossed his arms and said, "It will not be easy. Widowmaker is pursuing you. Lucky for you, I am pursuing Widowmaker."

Noor's face didn't change from his resting frown, but his voice rose in intrigue. "What are you proposing?"

"She will strike again." Hanzo explained, "Of that, I am certain. If Mr. Noor would be willing, I would offer to protect you and your wife on your way out."

"That a nice way of sayin' that you want to follow the bait around?"

Noor held up his left hand with another momentary wry smile, "I don't much care what his intentions are, Mr. McCree. I can pay him well. How much was my bounty, Mr…?"

"Fifty thousand euro alive. Forty dead. Mr. _Hanzo,_ " he finished, tersely.

"Then I will hire you, Mr. Hanzo. Sixty thousand euro." He looked to Jesse, "Each."

"That… Ain't a half-bad deal. 'Specially if we manage to bag the Femme Fatale doin' it."

Lena piped up, "Of course we'll protect you, Mr. Noor! And don't worry about paying us. We're heroes."

McCree winced. Hanzo exhaled sharply.

"I was talking to McCree and Hanzo," clarified Noor, pulling back his lips awkwardly. "I wasn't… even thinking of hiring you."

"What? Why?"

He only gave her a glance of eye contact, "Well, you don't have hands."

"So I don't, but-"

If Noor even heard her protest, he didn't show it. "I'm calling the valet to bring my car around, and one of my people to bring your cash to the airfield. You… _outlaws_ do prefer cash, correct?"

Hanzo and McCree nodded. Noor put his hand to his ear, and Lena noticed for the first time that his limb was cybernetic. He conversed for a few good minutes, apparently even his own people couldn't help but put him on hold. The work itself may be honest, but was it truly right considering how dubious the man's dealings were?

For now, something else weighed on her mind, something far heavier. Lena approached McCree, who was removing his casual wear and replacing it with his more iconic outfit, which he'd stored the stiff square bag. He clipped on his bronze armor, adjusting it.

"Jesse," said Lena, "You called Widowmaker… _Amelie?_ "

"Yeah, that's her name. Was, leastways, before everything that happened to her." He pulled on his snake-skin boots and looked at her. "What, you think they grew her in a tube or something?"

Tube-grown, Lena mused. The Widowmaker certainly looked like she had perfect genetics. God, that sounded terrible. "I don't know, I… Never thought about it. She was just a bad guy, you know? What um… _happened_?"

McCree brushed crystal fragments off a chair and sat backwards in it. "Name was Amelie Lacroix," he explained. "She was… Well, tangentially related to the Watch back in the day. Married. To a guy named Gerard. Decent guy. A little arrogant, schmoozy, but decent. Agent type. And he was _really_ rufflin' Talon's feathers. They couldn't get at him directly, Frenchy was just too damned good."

McCree popped a cigar in his mouth, and before you could say 'no smoking in a place of business,' a jet of flame erupted from his finger to light it. He took a puff, seeming to brace himself for the next part. "So then Talon decides that they'll go after his old lady instead. She gets kidnapped, tortured, brainwashed, God knows what else. Then they send her home with an implanted directive. Two weeks' time later, she kills her own husband in his sleep."

The story shook Lena. She didn't know what she'd expected to hear. "She… killed the one she loved? And she couldn't… She couldn't even stop herself?"

"Right then? No. That there was when the old Amelie died." McCree took another drag, exhaling. "She's just Talon's slave now."

"But she was a good person before."

"Enhhhh…" McCree bit down, "I wouldn't… Well… Debatably, yeah. She was a regular spider-lady, that one."

"Um… How?"

"She… The good Mrs. Lacroix had a propensity to… Sample different sleepin' arrangements."

"I don't- Oh..."

"I ain't judgin' her," McCree clarified. "We all make some mistakes. Hell, I made a lot. Worse than hers, even. But whether she really loved Gerard or no, she wasn't no angel before Talon got to her."

"It's nothing she…" Lena's word's stopped and started. "I mean that's bad. _Really bad._ But she doesn't deserve to _die_ for that, does she?"

After another long, thoughtful drag, McCree sighed heavily. "You may be right, Tracey. I don't reckon Amelie does. But Widowmaker? I ain't got a doubt."

"But what if…" Lena wondered if this was going to sound just as silly and outlandish outside her head as in it. "What if she's… Still _in_ there? What if we can-"

"Get her back?" McCree cut her off sharply, as if he was intimately familiar with the thought Lena was about to express. "Tracey, it's been thought about. It's been tried. This ain't the kind of thing that's reversible."

Tracer bit her lip and looked down at the red carpet. Amelie had killed Mondatta and many more, but was it truly her fault? She wasn't Ted Bundy, she wasn't Jack the Ripper, she hadn't chosen to be a murderer. Could Lena let a potentially innocent person die without a chance? Even Widowmaker? Her head spun, not producing answers. Suddenly, the world in general seemed much more complicated.

McCree put on his hat, his face covered by a dark, long shadow. The outlaw somehow seemed to know just what she was thinking. "Look, I… I take my targets in alive anyway. I ain't the one you need to be convincin'."

Hanzo waited by the front of the restaurant, tapping the door frame.

"My ride is here," said Noor. "Let's go."

McCree stood, took his revolver in hand and tipped his hat to Lena. "Good luck, kiddo."

But convince him of what? Lena thought, her feet ran on instinct, stumbling like a zombie after Hanzo. What could she convince him of when she wasn't sure herself? The mission, she decided, was what really mattered. Escort Noor. If Widowmaker showed up, chase her off. And if it came down to it…

She still wasn't sure.

Hanzo watched the streets vigilantly, scanning two blocks ahead and behind Noor's limousine. Lena followed behind him, at a much slower pace, but always periodically blinking back up to the assassin's side. With a bud in her ear tuned to a police scanner, she was scrolling through various pages and newsnet posts on her phone, all about the Widowmaker. Her, her MO, her previous kills.

So far, she had found little of import, save to confirm what McCree had claimed was true: Wherever Widowmaker appeared, three turned up dead. Her thoughts turned to the last time that the Widowmaker was in London. The night Mondatta was assassinated, the night Lena had failed to save him. Who were the others that she wasn't even aware of? She could hardly imagine that Lacroix had broken any kind of pattern that night.

Hanzo hadn't said much, but from his erratic pace and general uncaring of whether Lena could keep up clued in her in to the notion that he was wondering why she was even still here. If Lena had a sure answer herself, she'd have tried to give it. Not like Hanzo would have listened. The silence was unnerving. Lena ran through topics of conversation. Hanzo had shot an arrow at a tall building not long ago, he appeared to be analyzing the read out on his wrist-watch.

"That some kind of sonar?"

" _Hai,_ " he said.

"That's pretty cool."

Hanzo remained silent.

Lena cleared her throat, not sure if she was bad at small-talk, or if Hanzo was. They blinked and jumped over an alley, respectively. "That's a pretty ' _dope'_ weapon there, 'Zo." Lena continued, awkwardly sing-songy, "Not a lot of people use bows these days."

"No. I do not suppose so."

Lena decided she should just speak her mind. "You know, you'd fit right in with us."

"You and the American?"

"And the rest of my mates. Overwatch."

Hanzo suddenly seemed curious, though he hid it well. "Overwatch? I had heard they were dead."

"We're coming back. The world needs heroes again."

Hanzo scoffed. "You are certainly right about the world needing heroes. But _again_? Some would argue that heroes never existed. Life is rarely like our stories."

"Sometimes I think we need people to make our stories real. Like my mate Winston said: Don't see the world for what it is, Dare-"

"To see it for what it could be. I know the saying." Hanzo stammered for a second, "I… Read it in a GeoNat magazine. Laundromat somewhere. I was bored. You knew Dr. Harold Winston?"

Lena for a second, imagined Hanzo in a laundromat, washing seven identical kimonos. She refocused. "Actually, I'm best mates with his son."

"He had a son?"

"He's kind of… He's actually a gorilla. People don't really talk about it."

"I… Certainly would not, either."

The airfield was in sight. Hanzo hung back and watched, remaining stationary.

"So um… Widowmaker. She's your target."

"And is there a point to bringing this up?"

Lena actually wasn't sure. "You don't take them in alive, do you?"

Hanzo did not respond immediately. "No."

"Why not?" She thought about appealing to Hanzo's clearly stunted sense of humanity, but she didn't know if that would work. "You get more cash if they're alive."

"More often than not, they deserve it," he said, harsh as a blade.

Lena hadn't expected that kind of response. With chagrin, she realized that she'd only assumed that he was in it exclusively for the money. Someone with righteous intentions wouldn't be so willing to kill, would they?

Hanzo suddenly cut through the bullshit, somehow divining her point before she knew it herself. "And if you are trying to convince me to take _Widowmaker_ alive, forget it."

Her response was quick, but heavily improvised, "You can't know that. If they deserve it, I mean. Take Widowmaker, for instance. Did you know that she used to be a good person?"

Hanzo scoffed, smirking dryly. "Now _that_ is something _you_ cannot know."

Lena maintained her point. "It's true. She didn't start working for Talon by choice. She's brainwashed."

"I think I understand," said Hanzo, nodding. He wasn't bad at small-talk, Lena realized, he just hated wasting time with trivialities. "You think you can save her."

Lena stumbled over her own tongue, the static in her ear an audible representation of her brain. She found herself only realizing what she was trying to say as she said it, "I- Well, maybe not, but I think we should try at least. Get her to people who _can_ help. Does she deserve to die for something that wasn't her fault?"

"I will play your game, child. She did not become an assassin by choice, but how do you explain her actions? You think that deep down, she does not want this. But then why does she kill three? Two are by her own choice. Ask not if Widowmaker is hiding Amelie. Ask if Widowmaker _is_ who Amelie always was."

That was something to consider, Lena thought, but something no one could know, not until Amelie was given a chance. Lena considered for a long moment, Hanzo let her think without disturbance, and she finally said, "You know, I think you're a lot like Jesse."

Hanzo scoffed with another listless smirk, "Then it is possible that you think wrong."

"You'd both like to believe in something, but you're not sure what you should."

"Is that what you think?"

"You haven't denied it yet, have you?"

Hanzo still didn't. Noor's car entered the confines of airfield. Lena was relieved, wiping condensed moisture off her brow. Hanzo was suddenly fidgety and uncomfortable, though he tried very hard not to show it.

She looked over his shoulder at the side of his stony face. "You alright, love?"

"It's… Nothing." He said, "Just… A very serene undertaking. Not what I was expecting."

Lena grinned mischievously, "Life's not always as exciting as our stories, eh?"

Hanzo smiled, and it was just on the verge of genuine. "Twisting my words now? You're not nearly as stupid as you act, are you?" Hanzo jumped off the building to lower and lower footholds, finally landing within the grounds. Lena followed him down, blinking to each of his previous landings in turn. Noor's sleek white and blue private jet was waiting, engines spinning, prepped for takeoff.

McCree got out of the car, laughing. He held the door open for his two charges. Kashvi exited first, also in good spirits. She play-hit McCree in response to a joke Lena didn't hear him tell. From Sahim Noor's uncomfortable disposition, he appeared not to find the joke nearly as funny.

Lena and Hanzo approached them, regrouping.

McCree took a puff of an expensive cigar. "I take it you fellas' wagon ride was just as calm?"

"Actually, no," said Hanzo. "We fought off twenty assassins. All very well armed. We must have gotten them all before you even saw them. Too bad you weren't there."

Not getting a read from Hanzo, McCree took one look at Lena's face. She was desperately trying to keep a serious expression, and failing.

McCree pointed, unsure. "Did… Hanzo just make a joke?"

Lena exploded into gut-busting laugher. Hanzo still stood like a man of iron, looking at her as if there was nothing to laugh about. It was only when McCree glanced away that Hanzo allowed the corner of his mouth the slightest lift of whimsy.

"Well…" said Noor, "I suppose the smoothness of the trip non-withstanding, I did offer to pay you. Come."

Lena scratched her head with her phone. "You really didn't see her, Jesse?"

"Hide nor hair," McCree said with disappointment.

Hanzo's professional tone did nothing to hide his own lightly dampened spirit. "Perhaps next time," he said, optimistically.

Hanzo and McCree followed Noor to a black SUV with the trunk open. Noor ordered a large man in a suit to walk Kashvi to the jet. Even now, Tracer didn't feel quite right, and it wasn't just the calm.

She sat down, leaning against the wheel of the limo. She flipped through her phone again, looking at the pages she'd brought up. The more she could figure out about Widowmaker, the easier she could catch her next time, right?

Her thumb wagged over the phone screen, a pendulum swinging to a thoughtful, inaudible rhythm. There didn't appear to be a strict pattern between Widowmaker's random targets. They happened to be men, but other than that, nothing. Something got her thinking. Something else McCree said. She looked at the personal relationships of the random kills. Sure enough, they were all married. Digging further, she found scandal after scandal. Nearly all the random kills had been accused of or had committed infidelity. Spider-men.

Her police scanner in her ear suddenly fired up. Total chaos.

"Got a killing on Wimblethorn, send investigators," an officer said.

"Dead body on Clark. Send investigation team," said another.

Wimblethorn and Clark streets were on opposite ends of the city, but they'd been found at the same time. Widowmaker said she was late, didn't she? All three were likely intended to be found at once, but Lena and McCree had mucked it up. Some more digging, Lena found that the two dead were remarkably high-profile targets, wealthy and influential. John Kidder and Samal Sagan. They fit the profile of the Money and Talon targets. But the randoms almost always broke those patterns. She ran them both through Madshade. Only Sagan matched, but that was all she needed to know. Noor was not for the money.

"Mr. Noor!" she blurted out, blinking to her feet. "Please, this is a really weird but important question, have you cheated on your wife?"

"I _beg your pardon?_ " Noor's expression was confused and enraged. Lena understood completely, but she had no time to explain.

Before even finishing her current thought, she had an epiphany. The way Kashvi treated McCree. It wasn't much, it was practically nothing. But she started sprinting for the jet. If it was something, it could mean everything. If it was nothing, she'd just pissed off one of the most powerful men in the world for no reason. No pressure.

"Tracey, what the hell are you thinkin'?!"

"Sahim's not the target!"

Sahim's private security guards saw Lena rushing, and attempted to grab her, she blinked right through them and onto the jet. If she was right, she prayed that she wasn't too late.

A slimly built woman strolled down the main room of the plane, dressed in a bulky black suit, tie, and sunglasses. The large man, Kashvi's escort, held up a single hand.

He thundered, "No one disturbs Mrs. Noor. Boss's orders."

He noticed something. There was a large smudge of blue on her left eye. Then he realized that the blue wasn't the smudge.

The woman somersaulted on top of the guard and broke his neck with her legs. She rode the body down and continued walking to the private room in the back compartment of the jet. The carpets and drapes over the holographic window, currently displaying a stunning tropical beach, were red. Everything was either that red, gold, or dark wood stain. Kashvi was waiting on the bed.

"Didn't he tell you that no one is supposed to enter?" Useless guards." She slurred, holding a glass of tan whiskey in her hand. Her eyes widened as she dropped the glass onto the carpet. "Oh my god… It's _you?_ "

Widowmaker ripped off her glasses and calmly crushed them into the floor with her foot, revealing her hateful golden eyes. "So you remember our plans together?" she cooed gently. Then she turned sharp like a bullet. "Good. Then I don't have to explain why you're about to die." She fired a venom mine from her gauntlet onto the doorframe and advanced.

"I- I have done nothing!"

"Lie."

"I don't deserve to die, please."

" _Lie._ You don't love him at all."

"No, I do! I do."

"But you would betray him? Make him wish he were dead? Then you're worse than a liar."

Lena could see Widowmaker advancing toward the bed. She stood in the doorway, most of the small but luxurious room was visible even from there. "Stop!" she cried.

"Do not come closer," ordered Lacroix, "There's a mine by the door. Set it off and you'll kill her."

Lena's brain was static again. What the hell was she going to say? What magic combination of words would bewitch an assassin? Lena let her mouth say whatever it liked. She certainly didn't have any better ideas. "Amelie, l-listen to me. You don't have to do this."

Widowmaker swallowed, taken aback by Lena's use of her true name. But she didn't address it. "Of course I do," she merely said, "Talon ordered it."

"We both know that one's bollocks." Tracer called, "You do three kills per trip. One for Talon, one for the money, and one more. And… Well, you've already killed two."

Widowmaker sneered. "Out of your own mouth. I'm a killer, stupid fly. My course is set."

Lena's eyes started to water. She wasn't prepared for this. She started spouting off rhetoric she'd only ever believed in because she hadn't truly considered it. "It never is. You can stop. You can change." She sounded like a walking cliché. But then, after she paused and worked saliva into her dry mouth, something sincere bubbled up, "I don't know your reasons, but I know that you're killing her because you _remember._ You remember Gerard. You don't have to be their slave. Just let someone help. You can be the woman you were, you just have to admit it's possible."

Hate rumbled in Widowmaker's eyes. A reaction to Lena knowing the other name from her past. She still acted like it didn't bother her. "Fool. You're only ignoring the evil that's right in front of you."

"You're just ignoring the good. I can see it, why can't you?"

Widowmaker's voice lost all its previous finesse. She snarled like an animal in a cage. " _Nothing_ hides from my sight. If I do not see it, it is not there. You think _I'm_ the brainwashed one? Morrison did an exceptional job of blinding you. But you are right about one thing," she said, "This one _is_ for me."

Widowmaker put her delicate hands around Kashvi's neck. Lena blinked through the mine's sensor and knocked Amelie into the dresser. Widow kicked Tracer in her broken arm, then pulled out a pistol.

A white flash flooded the room. Before the venom mine went off, Hanzo grabbed it, stuck it on an arrow, then shot it through a window. McCree threw Widowmaker out against the walls of the jet's corridors. He pressed the Peacekeeper to her back.

"Good job distractin' her, Tracey."

"Distracting…" muttered Lena. "Yeah."

"Hold on now, darlin'," he said. "We can do this the easy way, or the hard way."

Widowmaker did nothing but stare at McCree.

"Easy way then," McCree nodded. "Good woman."

She didn't resist when McCree rolled her over, took her gun, and started walking her out of the jet.

Widow spoke. "Hard way."

Widowmaker hit a button on her wrist, and the jet suddenly filled with sultry-smelling purple venom gas. She'd sabotaged the jet's air conditioning. Widow shook away from the cowboy's grasp, snatched her pistol, and slammed the door of the plane, heading for Noor's SUV. Lena could only watch through the window as Amelie deftly killed each of the security guards that tried to stop her.

Thinking fast, Hanzo nocked an arrow and shot out another window. Noor realized what the assassin was doing. With a gesture from his cybernetic right hand, a blue-shaded holographic pattern appeared in his left before becoming a smoothly sculpted white pistol. He used it to open more windows with bullets of light. Short of breath, McCree kicked the jet's door, hoping to get it loose. Lena joined in, kicking in unison.

Before long, they managed to break through, but by then, Widowmaker had already commandeered Noor's vehicle, and was well on her way to escaping. McCree, Noor, and Hanzo all opened fire on her, but only Hanzo managed to hit. Though it didn't do much good. The car shrunk into the darkened horizon, its destination unknown.

"God _damn_ it!" growled McCree.

Noor dropped his weapon and it shattered into lustrous fragments. "Yes, emergency services!" he barked into his hand, "There's an armed assailant fleeing Churchill airfield in a black SUV. Send everyone you have!"

Hanzo slung his bow over his shoulder. "They will not catch her. But I will."

"And how exactly is that gonna pan out, Tats?"

Hanzo held up his watch, a blinking dot moving down a map.

"Tracking arrow. I underestimated you."

"You let her escape. I _over_ estimated _you."_

"Enough bickering from you two," said Noor, sighing and nursing his head. "I think that Widowmaker has played her cards for tonight. And despite my mood, I've already paid you, so go."

"Sahim!" Kashvi grabbed his shoulders ecstatically, "Oh, you were brilliant, you saved my life!"

"So we did," Noor said, flatly. Kashvi shrunk back. "Ms. Oxton, it appears my _dear_ wife and I are in your debt. I would like to know how I may repay you."

"I don't need any thanks, sir. Always happy to help."

"Good, then I don't need to worry about it."

Lena coughed. "I mean, you could thank me a _little_."

Noor ignored her comment. "Have a splendid night, all of you." And he left, bearing Kashvi little regard. Lena's heart was gripped with guilt. She'd saved a life, but might have ruined a marriage. She wished that life would stop being so dreadfully complicated.

Noor's workers set upon repairing the plane, they all shared similar cybernetic enhancements to their hands. Whether it was just their hand, or if down from the shoulder had been cyberized. It was fascinating to watch them conjure everything they needed from light alone, shaping complex atomic patterns with their fingers, then solidifying them.

"I will track Widowmaker," said Hanzo, "No doubt she will know I am following and evade, but it will be a start."

"Tracey and I'll grab the bike, we'll find you."

"Here's my card!" said Lena, trying to get in her pockets. "Here's… My… card… Hold on, it's really cool. It's got Winston's number on it too."

Hanzo swiped her handbag and took her phone. Before McCree could make a comment as to the action's impropriety, Hanzo touched it to his watch, then returned her articles. "We'll stay in contact," he said.

With that, Hanzo began his run, back onto the rooftops. McCree was stationary, his cigar fallen out of his agape mouth.

"You… He just gave you his damn _phone number_ , Tracey. Beginnin' of the night he ain't even talkin' and now you're best damned buddies? What kind of voodoo you get your powers from?"

Lena wasn't sure. Everything that happened tonight was a whirlwind. If Lena was being honest, she didn't even know how she was still alive. "Um…" Lena mumbled. "I guess though… I'm kinda the hypocrite now, aren't I?

McCree slapped her shoulder softly, and they started on their way back. "And how do you figure that?"

"You saw it. I just rushed in. Didn't think to tell you what I was thinking, what I was even going to do."

McCree took out a box of extravagant cigars from his chest pocket. Lena imagined that he'd taken the five-finger discount on Noor's in-drive amenities. He offered one. She politely declined with a raise of her hand. Shrugging, he said, "Tracey, I don't reckon any other one of us could have done what you did tonight."

"What _I_ did?" Her thoughts turned to Widowmaker. She hadn't managed to catch her. What was there to celebrate?

He lit his cigar and took a quick puff. "She had her hands around Kashvi's damn throat, and you managed to slow her down without a punch or a shot fired. That's… Well, that's somethin' special for a kid with her hands in casts. You played your part, Tracey, the way only you could play it." He patted her shoulder. "I'll be lookin' forward to servin' with you. _Officer Oxton._ "

By the time McCree and Lena made it back to the restaurant, it became clear that Widowmaker would not be found, and that Hanzo would not be calling anytime soon. On a positive note, there was practically no one around, so hiding McCree's tell-tale cowboy getup wasn't a problem. McCree dropped his spent cigar onto the street and stamped it out. After a disapproving glance from Lena, he picked it up and tossed it in a nearby ashtray, rolling his eyes.

They finally came to the bike. Lena tried to swing her leg over the top.

"I can't," she said.

"Can't what?"

"Get it over. Leg's wonky."

Exhaling softly, McCree said, "Here." He picked her up by the shoulders, putting her on the back seat.

"OI!" A voice all too familiar to both. Emmie was across the street in her car. Emmie got out, slamming the door and storming across the empty street. "What's all this? You stole my bike and now you've all got cuts and bruises and what else?!"

"This is not what it looks like," said McCree, still awkwardly holding Lena above the ground. "If you give me but the briefest of moments, I will gently-"

"Oh no, by all means," said Emmie. "Drop her."

"Now ma'am, I understand that you're upset, but I have never dropped a lady before, and I-"

"Drop her, you chauvinist."

McCree winced. "Now, Tracey, it pains me to say this, but I am deathly terrified by your old lady."

"No, it's okay, Jesse." She nodded solemnly, "You can drop me."

"Tracey, you're just makin' this harder."

"I deserve it, just go on," she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "Go on."

McCree looked away, eyes closed, then dropped Lena on the ground.

She let out a quiet "Ow" as her posterior hit the sidewalk.

Emmie stomped up and slapped McCree. "That's for dropping my girlfriend." She knelt down and hugged her. McCree stepped away slowly.

Emmie's grip was very tight. Tracer grunted. "I hit that shoulder like twice, Emmie. It's hard to breath. Iiii… can no longer breath."

"Oh come off it. Recall now if your arse hurts."

"I can't, Emmie. 'Cause I shouldn't. I deserve it. I really do. I should have trusted you."

Emmie released slightly, arms still around Lena's shoulders. "Does all this mean that you've decided?" she said. "You're joining Overwatch?"

"Em… I'm _already_ a part of it. For like, a year. I was the first one who showed up when Winston sent out the call. I didn't tell you then because I didn't think… I thought you were going to say no, and I thought that if I hadn't asked… Oh crackers, It's so stupid."

"You got _that_ right, stupid."

McCree smiled. "Em, I-"

Emmie pointed her finger at him, "This is your fault too, cowpoke!"

"Em, look, I realize that you're never going to be perfectly at ease with this, but… I've a notion that Tracey's gonna be just fine."

"I want to make it up to you, Em," Lena said. "I hear there's really great spot in the city. Really exclusive."

"Oh yeah? Where?"

"Like right behind us."

McCree offered to leave and give Lena and Emmie their space, but Emmie, a threatening glint in her eye, insisted once more that McCree stay for a drink. It was at this point that McCree's fear of Emmie had become that of the cosmic and unknowable. They had all just sat down when Hanzo stumbled in, looking exhausted.

"I didn't find the car," the assassin conceded.

"That's a shame," Lena said, her head dropping ever so slightly. Next time, she thought. Next time they'd find her.

"I do not wish to admit it but," Hanzo shrugged, "the outcome was never in doubt."

"Who's that now?" asked Emmie, squinting. This time she kept her comments about how strange the newcomer's outfit was to herself.

"A third drinkin' buddy," proposed McCree, tipping his hat. "That's if he's willin' of course."

"Not like I have anything better to do." Hanzo took a seat. Lena had a feeling that he really did want companionship. Even though he tried very, very hard not to admit it.

"C-Can I take your order?" asked the waiter, teeth chattering, remembering full-well what happened the last time these three were here.

"Garcon, get me a Jack Adams," said McCree.

The waiter looked disproportionately terrified. "We… don't have that, sir."

"What?! What kinda…" McCree said, flustered. The waiter's teeth clicked faster and louder at the cowboy's outburst, and McCree settled down. "Just get the others', come back around."

"Rum and coke," said Lena.

"Same," said Emmie. "But hold the rum. Someone has to drive these jokers home."

Hanzo looked at the menu for a moment, then said, "Water."

"Oh, come _on,_ " they all said in unison.

"Live a little!" goaded Emmie.

"Very well. Sake," Hanzo requested.

"Coming right up, sir."

"You pullin' my leg here? You got 'sah-kay' and not Jack Adams?"

"Bring out some for all of us," Lena said. She tried to be encouraging, if for no other reason than to make the waiter more comfortable. She addressed the grousing McCree across the table. "Come on, love. You might like it."

"Fine," McCree said. "Ain't no harm, I suppose."

They brought out the drinks. McCree took a hesitant sip, and his expression lightened slightly.

"You know, that's not half bad but... I prefer a little bite to my liquor."

"Predictable," said Hanzo. "Such unsophisticated taste."

"Make another crack at how American I am, Tats. We might have to take this outside."

Hanzo smirked. Lena and Emmie giggled.

After all was said and done, Lena was still curious about the Japanese assassin. "You never did say why you were in London, Hanzo."

"Me? I planned to…" Hanzo paused, "Well… several years ago, I-"

"You mind movin' ahead a bit there?"

"…Someone I had not seen in many years. They told me to seek out this Overwatch. I scoffed at first, but I realized, perhaps I should heed his counsel. At least see for myself what he spoke of. And then I found you."

"You came to the right place," said Lena. "The world could always use more heroes!"

"Heroes. What is Overwatch really? What will it be like if I… Decide that I will join?"

"Well," McCree said, his mood utterly restored. "I reckon it'll have some crazy situations, manic highs, some dismal lows. Never uneventful, that's for sure. But at the end of the day, some good times, good friends, and some good 'ol fashioned justice. So I'd say an awful lot like tonight."

"Hm," said Hanzo, sipping. "I suppose we shall see."

Amelie slouched alone between vomit-green painted walls in the lounge at Talon's secret headquarters. When she'd walked in, hair in a tangle, dressed only with a black bathrobe, everyone there left as fast as their legs could carry them. Seeing her outside her room, especially in this state, meant nothing but trouble.

Gabriel entered, face covered with a hood. He perused the deserted space, then shrugged as if it were only slightly unusual. He took a styrofoam cup from a stack and filled it with scalding hot black coffee.

"Hm," he mused. He appeared formless and faceless reflected in the empty screen of the dormant plasma television. "Guess it is bad luck to see a spider in the morning."

"Not in the mood," Amelie grumbled.

Gabriel gulped down a painful throat-full of his beverage. "Bad night at the office?" He teased.

"And I suppose your day went _perfectly._ "

He took a tiny, slurping sip, refusing to answer.

Not a lot was said for a long while. For whatever reason, Amelie found Gabriel's presence comforting. Even if he didn't speak. Gabriel turned away, intending to fill his cup.

Amelie broke the silence. She was really just trying to get him to stay, but without admitting her intention. "What happened to us, Gabriel? We're the top in our professions for years. Overwatch comes back along and suddenly we're both bumbling fools. Taken out by bowmen… And cowboys…"

"Cowboys?" Said Gabriel.

"And the girl was there too. Tracer. She… She knew about… Him."

Gabriel's head dropped a centimeter. "Oh."

"I miss… Him. Sometimes."

"Yeah?" Said Gabriel, pouring himself the dregs of the pot. He played it like he was only half-listening, but Amelie knew better.

"No one believed me when I said so. They only saw a trophy whore. I tossed men aside like trash for years, I'll admit, but I never did that to him. Only once. _Once,_ Gabriel. Just to know if I could still feel… I think I really did lo-…" She choked on the word. Her eyes burned. "I… I did. You believe me, right?"

Gabriel's silence dragged on. Long enough for Amelie to consider that maybe he hadn't been listening at all. She sighed heavily and slumped deeper into the couch.

"Sure," Gabriel finally said, nodding infinitesimally, "I believe you."

"Then why don't _I?_ "

Another nearly eternal silence. Gabriel drank very slowly, seeming deep in thought. This time, however, he merely said, "Good morning, Lacroix." And leisurely headed for the door, disappearing into the void of the screen.

Gabriel watched wordlessly as four fully-geared Talon operatives rushed past him. They surrounded Amelie, pointing their guns at her. She marked their positions with their reflections. It was instinct. When one swung the butt of their weapon at the back of her neck, she grabbed his arm, stood, and threw him over her shoulder at another. Again, only a reflex, but one cathartic to indulge.

"Stand down," said a dark, regal voice, he gave his vowels their full value and enunciated them clearly, the tone of education. And they all obeyed. Except for Amelie. "You too, Widowmaker," the voice said.

"F-fist!" said one of the soldiers.

Despite the tingling urge to comply with Fist's orders, Amelie didn't. She turned around and looked into the man's grey-green eyes defiantly.

"Widowmaker, stand down and return to the laboratory." After an obstinant moment of silence, Fist said, in a disapproving but aloof tone, "Very well. _Araignée du matin, chagrin._ "

At the phrase, the itch became a stabbing pain, and her legs began to wobble. Her lips wouldn't move. She begged Gabriel to help with her eyes, but he remained still.

Fist ploddingly advanced to Amelie and grabbed her face, pulling her in. " _Araignée du soir, espoir._ "

Amelie fell to her knees, shuddering and catatonic. Her muscles didn't move, however loudly she screamed in her mind. The Talon security grabbed her arms.

"She's gone far too long without reconditioning," said Fist, examining her features. "Make sure it's done thoroughly this time. I don't want this happening again." Gabriel did nothing as the frozen Amelie was dragged away. Fist turned his piercing gaze onto the wraith. "Do you understand, Reaper? Never again."

With that, Fist left Gabriel in the empty room. Gabriel crushed his cup, splashing his hand with the nearly boiling fluid, and dropped it recklessly on the floor.

"Not my boss," he said.

Far below, in a grey laboratory, Amelie was restrained on a cold metal chair by steel arms, though she was not resisting. A man in a white coat jammed a long blade through the chair into the back of Amelie's head. She gasped in pain, even though she'd felt it many times before.

"Gerard," she whispered, the most she could manage. The name was sweet on her tongue. " _You_ believe me, don't you?"

To be continued.


End file.
